The Science of Love
by DiaDuitCluaiste
Summary: Sherlock loves Molly, but to him it's an experiment. Will it be like that way forever? Sherlock and Molly will eventually have a baby. I promise.
1. Tea and Coffee

Sherlock studied the blood specimen under the microscope. Every few seconds he would glance up and watch her. She moved lightly and easily around the room. It was like she was there, but she wasn't. He liked that. He liked that she was so quiet. She didn't _have_ to talk, or break the silence, especially when she knew that he was thinking or working. He looked blankly at his work again. He wasn't really doing anything in particular. He didn't have a case on, nor did it look like there would be one any time soon. She was pretty much the only reason he was there. He scowled at himself. What had got into him? He never thought things like that. Except since she saved him.

He hadn't realised that he had gone back to staring until she looked to him and he snapped his eyes back down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her frown momentarily and then supress a smile. She was adorable. No. No, she wasn't. She was Molly Hooper. She hadn't changed. She approached him and set the analysis results down beside the microscope without a word. She didn't expect any thanks as she turned away and it didn't cross his mind that he should give her some. Without looking he took the paper in his hand. He glanced at it, approved silently, and returned it to its previous place.

He stole another look at her. She was sorting through tests tubes and phials that he'd used, tipping the contents down the sink and placing them in the washer. She stopped and stared intently at the tray in front of her. Sherlock frowned. She struggled a little, as if fighting an internal confliction. It passed and she carried on tidying up after him. He went back to his work reluctantly.

Things had been quiet since he had "returned from the dead". Very few people came to him with cases, Lestrade rarely allowed him to help out with the police and John had a job at a nearby surgery. Things were _very_ quiet. Molly was all he really had now. She had helped him fake his death and she had helped him prove that Moriarty was real. She had housed him, fed him, put up with his strops and supported him throughout his drug relapse. He couldn't have done it without her. And he hadn't really thanked her – not yet. She didn't realise how much she meant to him and how his views of her had changed.

Truth be told, he'd fallen in love with her.

He shook his head in frustration. He hated himself for it. It was so distracting. _She_ was so distracting. Yet, in some odd way it was fascinating. He had taken to recording his thoughts regarding her in a notebook and studying them at length, but he always reached the same conclusion – he _liked_ her. That was what he was doing at the lab when he had no case on. The blood sample he was studying was his and the results Molly had given him from the computer analysis showed him what he had expected to see – increased levels of dopamine and serotonin. It wasn't love, it was science.

Sherlock stood, threw the blood sample away and walked over to Molly.

"Your morning shift finished twenty minutes ago." He stated plainly. She blushed and stammered, her eyes flitting up and down from his face to his lapel.

"I – I know, I just – I thought you might like some company." She said unsurely. He studied her face. She seemed… embarrassed? Shy? Uncomfortable? He was useless with emotions. He hadn't changed _that_ much. He took a deep breath.

"I was just going to get some coffee. Care to join me?" He asked, adding his best flirtatious smile.

"Oh – I – yes, of course." She said happily, a bright smile breaking across her face. She picked her cardigan from the back of the door and swapped it with her lab coat. Together they made their way to the canteen and he paid for her drink.

They sat in silence and he watched her sip carefully at her hot tea. She looked uncomfortable, like she knew something about him that made her embarrassed. He retraced his steps over the last fifty-six hours which they had spent apart. He could think of nothing that had changed. She glanced up at him and then down at her cup. She fiddled with her fingers and he waited for her. In the end it became too much for her and she broke the awkward silence.

"That – that blood sample you were looking at. Whose was it?"

Sherlock shifted in his chair. Of course. He replied honestly.

"Mine."

"Oh, well…" She coughed in embarrassment. He knew she'd noticed and so he waited for her to speak again, "Very high dopamine levels. Lots of serotonin, too."

"And what would you deduce from that?" He asked calmly. She pursed her lips, like she always did, and smiled nervously.

"I would say stress or use of cocaine or, um, sexual attraction." Sherlock nodded in response.

"Keep going."

"Well, I would rule out the first one because you don't have any cases on and you don't seem too tense." She continued, "And I would probably rule out the second one too, if you're clean-"

"Which I am."

"So, that leaves the last one, which means that I've missed something because that doesn't really make sense." She finished.

"Doesn't it?" He asked plainly. She looked up at him.

"Does it?"

"Considering the various compromising scenarios my unconscious mind has been playing out recently, I would say that it makes perfect sense." Molly stared at him as she blushed.

"Compromising scenarios?" She asked timidly, "Of – of who?"

Sherlock watched her and was about to answer when their conversation was interrupted.

"Sherlock?" They both whipped around to see John making his was over to them. He greeted Molly briefly.

"John." The detective replied, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone, "I thought you were at the surgery."

"I get Fridays off, remember? We were going to take those case reports to Lestrade."

"You can tell him that I'm fine and I'm clean." John looked slightly irritated that the detective had seen through his ruse.

"Just come on, will you."

The detective gave in.

"Fine." The conversation between him and Molly had become awkward anyway. They could start on a new leaf in the afternoon.

"Thanks again for the tea." She said as he stood up and buttoned up his coat. He nodded blankly; he was keen that John should remain unsuspicious.

"I'll be back this afternoon. There's one more test I want to run before I present my findings."

* * *

><p>"I never thanked you." That was how he greeted her several hours later. Molly jumped out of her skin, and her keys jumped out of her hand. He caught them before they hit the floor and passed them back to her.<p>

"Did you follow me all the way home?" She asked accusingly, taking the keys from his hand and adjusting the shoulder strap of her rucksack. Before he could reply – not that he intended to – his statement registered with her and she continued, "Thanked me for what?"

"For everything that you did for me."

"You don't have to thank me." She said dismissively, "I'm your friend. Helping is what friends do."

"But I want to thank you." He insisted. She smiled.

"Tea?"


	2. Understanding

Ten minutes later they were sat on the sofa drinking their tea in comfortable silence. Sherlock indicated to the piano in the corner in the room that was covered in papers and books.

"I didn't know that you play the piano."

"Oh, well, yes. A little." She replied, looking down at her hands and setting her mug on the small magazine laden table in the middle of the room.

"I'd like to hear you play." He said, setting his cup next to hers

"Who is it, Sherlock?" She asked suddenly, "The one you keep thinking about." Slowly he raised his hand to her face. He ran his thumb gently across her jaw. Her breath hitched. It was now or never.

"Who do you think?"

She only stared at him, her eyes almost watering in surprise. Neither of them needed to answer the question. He leant in slowly and pressed his lips to her with precision. Interesting. Not unpleasant, in fact, rather enjoyable. She moved against him and he responded to her eagerness. So, she liked it too. They worked together and her arms wrapped themselves around his neck confidently, her chest pushed to his. Well, that was unexpected and… new. She pushed him back onto the sofa and soon they were pressed closely together. It was warm, intimate. It wasn't nearly as bad as John's porn videos had made it out to be. It wasn't vulgar or coarse; it was nice – it was comforting.

They continued for several minutes before, without warning, Molly's hand slipped down his front and grabbed the waist band of his trousers. A white hot flush shot through him. He assumed that this was how it was meant to go. Elevated heart rate, sweaty palms, shaking hands – excitement, anticipation, apprehension. Rerouted blood flow – sexual arousal? A small breathy moan escaped his mouth. Yes, yes it was.

"Sorry." She muttered breathlessly.

"N- hng." Was all that he could manage. A few minutes later his shirt was unbuttoned and halfway off his shoulders and hers lay discarded on the floor. He was trying to think, make deductions, observations, conclusions, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. He had planned on kissing her, but he hadn't even considered the possibility that it could go further – that he would _want_ it to go further.

He wanted more. It wasn't slow like he'd imagined it to be, like in a romantic film. He realised as his trousers were being tugged off that it was fast and frantic, and it was bound to get messy. He had to tell her.

"Please." He whispered. She stopped. He hadn't wanted that, but he had to tell her.

"What? Is there something you need?"

"Yes." He said, sitting up a little more. She stayed and watched him patiently, "I haven't – I've never – I've never done this before."

"I don't usually do this so early-"

"No I mean, I've never – I've not ever – done _this_." He couldn't think straight. All his common sense seemed to have fallen out of his head, but she had to understand.

"You – you're a – never?" She seemed to be as distracted as he was, but she realised what he meant, "I'm sorry. We can stop." She made to move away, but he gripped her wrist tightly to stop her.

"No, don't stop." He pleaded, "It's just – you lead. I'm lost here." Even in his state he could tell that that had made very little or no sense, but she understood him. His voice broke and he spoke words that he didn't mean to, that he hadn't even been aware that he had been thinking, "I'm scared." She kissed him.

"Don't be."

She always understood him.

* * *

><p>The sunlight was painful to his bleary, heavy eyes. The room around him seemed white and far, far too bright. He was in an unfamiliar area, but he could still tell that it was between the hours of eight and nine. He rubbed his eyes and his surroundings came into focus. He was in a bedroom – Molly's bedroom. It was more muddled than his. Photographs, letters and postcards covered the walls. Books were piled high and several items of clothing lay about in a state of disorder; he recognised his own trousers amongst the collection on the footboard. The curtains were open, unusual for a girl like Molly, which implied that she was otherwise occupied last night…<p>

Oh. He turned to his left and there she lay, as quiet and as beautiful as ever. The activities of the night before returned to him and he regarded her blankly. The emotion he was experiencing – was it satisfaction, discomfort, _pride_? He accepted all three as answers and rolled onto his side to face her. She was a heavy sleeper. Or perhaps she only was after sexual intercourse. He wouldn't know. Her face displayed something akin to modest triumph. She had enjoyed last night.

Had he? He couldn't remember. Was that a good thing? He focused his mind on the memories. Obviously he had no previous experiences to measure his pleasure against, but he was fairly sure that they were spectacular together. He pushed a strand of hair from her face and smiled. It soon fell to a frown as he realised that this latest development left his investigation hanging in the air. They had slept together unexpectedly and they had enjoyed it, or at least she had enjoyed it immensely, but what next? Where did he go from here? Did he go _anywhere_ from here? Was this experiment at an end?

A soft vibrating caught his attention and traced it to the floor on his side of the bed. His phone screen glared up at him accusingly. He carefully retrieved it and opened the message.

_Where are you? Lestrade called in. He has a case for you._

It was from John.

_Slight detour. I'll be back in half an hour._

_SH_

He sent his reply and looked over to Molly. He kissed the top of her head gently and pushed the covers off himself. He found his clothes and began to dress as quietly as he could, repeatedly looking over to her. He didn't want her to wake up, but at the same time he did. He frowned as he retrieved his left shoe from beneath the bed. Was he meant to feel this confused? Sherlock froze as Molly stirred. His shadow must have woken her up.

"Are you going?" She asked, squinting against the light. He pulled on his shirt.

"Lestrade called with a case." He replied. She nodded her understanding, "Where's my blazer?"

"Um, it's probably still in the living room." He sat on the edge of the bed, tying his shoelaces, and she watched him. He could tell that there was something on the tip of her tongue and so he waited for her to speak, "I wish you could stay."

"I have work and so do you." He paused, "Molly, you won't tell John, will you? It's – this is private."

"Of course I won't, if that's what you want." She replied softly, crawling across the bed and planting a tender kiss on his jaw.

"I never got around to thanking you." He murmured. She laughed.

"Consider us even." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Thanking with sex is cheap, Molly. I _will_ pay you back for everything that you've done for me, I promise." She shook her head.

"I don't want you to pay me back."

"But-"

"Just, say it."

He kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Thank you."

* * *

><p><strong>Note to readers: Hope you liked it! Thank you so much for those who alertedfavourited/reviewed. It meant so much, seeing as I was convince it was terrible! We will get to babies very soon, I promise. Next chapter teaser: what happens when John finds out? Any writing/character tips for future reference would be much appreciated. **


	3. A Doctor's Deductions

**Note to readers: Thank you so much for the amazing response I've had for this fic! I really did not expect it at all. Things are moving swiftly along for our favourite couple-that-should-be-canon-but-aren't-because-Mofftiss****-are-evil and Sherlock will EVENTUALLY get around to thanking Molly soon. A disclaimer as always.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock's phone buzzed again as he was stepping out onto the street.<p>

_He's getting impatient. Hurry up._

The detective didn't feel the need to reply; he would be back very soon. He looked about him and it occurred to him that, although he had followed Molly from St Bart's, he hadn't been paying attention to street names; his mind had been elsewhere. The door that he had just stepped through was numbered 172A. Wandering further down the road, he found that he was on North Gower Street. He hailed a cab and five minutes later he was back at Baker Street.

Lestrade and John were sat waiting for him in the living room, deep in conversation and with worried frowns on their faces. They immediately fell silent as he entered and the inspector stood up.

"I believe that you have a case for me." Sherlock said.

"Sir Reginald Musgrave reported two of his house staff missing yesterday morning. I've already been down there, but I can't make head or tail of it."

"Hardly surprising. Reginald Musgrave has always had a knack for getting involved in things that confused everyone, if I remember correctly. Well, everyone but me."

"You know him?"

"Our paths crossed briefly at university. He used to call me 'Sherly'." The detective replied bitterly. John snorted, but Lestrade still looked concerned.

"You'll help?"

"Of course."

"Good. I've given the address to John. Get there as soon as possible."

They exchanged head nods and the inspector showed himself out. Sherlock smiled contently. What luck that he would be presented with a long-awaited case; just when it seemed that his other experiment was at a regrettable dead-end. He tossed his coat onto the sofa and was taking off his scarf when John spoke.

"Where were you last night?" Sherlock's mind whizzed through a thousand possible answers, but he settled for sarcasm. He was in the mood for sarcasm.

"Your concern is touching." He replied.

"That doesn't answer my question." John said, "Where were you?" Sherlock fell back on plan B.

"I was running an investigation."

"What kind of investigation?"

"Just some basic chemical hormone analysis." He answered dismissively, "Nothing that would change the world as we know it."

"Really?" John said sceptically. Sherlock gestured confidently, picking a slice of toast from the plate on the table and speaking with his mouth half full.

"Is there something I'm missing, some deduction I've overlooked?"

John folded the newspaper in his hand and shrugged with the same surety as his roommate, standing up and placing the paper on the table.

"You don't usually stay overnight at the lab. You usually come back here." He said. He indicated to second slice of toast that the detective had just picked up, "And you don't usually eat when you have a case on, so I _deduce_ that you're lying to me." Sherlock stopped and threw the half-eaten bread back onto the plate. John was right. He couldn't know that he was right.

"Impressive. Perhaps _you_ should take this case." He said derisively. His roommate raised an eyebrow at him and Sherlock walked out of the room, "I'm taking a shower. Be ready to leave in twenty minutes."

* * *

><p>The case of the Musgrave Ritual was indeed an interesting one, but Sherlock couldn't help but be distracted by other thoughts. Reginald Musgrave was as dithery and as over excitable as he had been all those years ago and the detective found it increasingly difficult to tolerate his presence. He and John left a few hours later and returned to Baker Street whilst Lestrade headed back to the police station with the new evidence Sherlock had provided him with.<p>

Sherlock sat at the table, a photocopy of the ritual in front of him.

"_Where was the sun? Over the oak._" He read, "_Where was the shadow? Under the Elm_." He repeated the same section twice more. It was very difficult to concentrate when he could tell that John was watching him over the top of the laptop. It had been the same the whole time they had been at Sussex House, "_North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one_. What is your problem?" John's head snapped up – he knew that Sherlock was addressing him.

"Nothing. I don't have a problem."

"Then would you _please_ stop watching me. I'm finding it difficult enough to think as it is."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really. Do you have nothing better to do than to sit and irritate me?"

"Not at the moment."

Sherlock glared at his roommate and John simply looked back at him blankly.

"Why won't you tell me what happened last night?" He asked imploringly, "Sherlock, I'm your friend."

"It's none of your business. Why must you _insist_ on knowing?" Sherlock cried, tossing the paper onto the table in annoyance.

"Because whatever it is, it's upset you and for some stupid reason, I care." John paused and studied the anger and confusion on his friend's defiant face, "It's something to do with Molly, isn't it?"

For a moment, Sherlock forgot his defensive stance against John's prying and his facial expression dropped.

"I'm not stupid." John said sourly, standing up and carrying his empty coffee mug into the kitchen, "You're not the only one who can _deduce_ things." The detective stood and followed him, stopping in the middle of the living room.

"How did you work that out?" He wished that he could sound less like a child who had just been discovered with his hand in the biscuit tin, but he could hardly get around the fact that he was at a loss to explain John's knowledge. He wasn't admitting defeat, though. John stood at the counter and faced his roommate.

"Your coat smells of her perfume."

"When did you smell my coat?"

"I didn't, but it was hard not to notice it in the cab."

Sherlock was actually rather impressed. Perhaps John was a little more than ordinary after all. But he couldn't know that.

"It was an experiment." John frowned in concern.

"An experiment?" He asked. It was possible that John could shed some light on the predicament that the detective found himself in. Sherlock swallowed his pride. There was only one way to find out.

"Since – since Molly helped me fake my death I've been thinking of her differently. My mind's been playing tricks on me, acting out various… scenarios – scenarios involving her." Sherlock ignored his roommate's eyes widening, "I thought – I made it into an experiment. I tested my blood and I monitored and recorded my thoughts and last night, against my better judgement, I kissed her."

"You – you kissed her?" John repeated incredulously. Sherlock nodded, "And that was it? You kissed her and that was it?"

"Not entirely."

The army doctor raised his eyebrows questioningly and the detective looked to his feet. He didn't trust himself to find the correct phraseology and so he simply continued to look as awkward as he felt. John's realisation was almost comical.

"You slept with her, didn't you?" He said in reserved tones. Sherlock was sure that there was something underneath his calm expression. Was it anger? Possibly, but considering John's past record they would be arguing by now if he was angry. So, was he disappointed, or even impressed? It was difficult to tell, "Sherlock, answer me."

"We had sex." The detective replied plainly.

"How?"

"Pardon?"

"How did it happen? What, did you fall into her? Were you being held at gun point or something? I just don't think I'm quite getting it." John said, a small bemused smirk forming on the corners of his lips.

"Well, I – it just – happened." Sherlock answered with a frown, "Why are you so pleased with yourself?" The army doctor's grin was now a full-blown smile.

"I'm not. I'm happy for you." He said dismissively, "I just never thought you had it in you."

"Oh."

They fell into an awkward silence and when Sherlock looked up from scuffing his shoes on the floor John was no longer smiling.

"It meant something though, didn't it?" He asked tentatively, "You're not just playing her around for the sake of science."

"Of course it meant something."

"And it's not just an experiment."

"Well-"

"_Sherlock_."

"It's not _just_ an experiment." The detective answered honestly. John sighed a little, but he looked pleased with Sherlock's answer on the whole.

"Good. Are you going to see her again?"

"I have a case." Sherlock answered plainly.

"Fine. But call her or something." John said. They watched each other for a moment before the army doctor started for the door, "Right, well, we are out of milk _again_." He stopped with his keys in his hand and gave his roommate a queer look, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

With that, Sherlock turned from the door and grabbed the ritual. He wasn't really fine; he was still confused, but he had tired of conversing with his roommate and had no intention of talking for longer than he had to. He crouched on his chair, now setting his mind on the case of the Musgrave Ritual. He felt John hesitate.

"I know – I know it's not my place to ask-"

"Yet I am under the distinct impression that you will do so anyway." Sherlock said.

"But were you – you were careful, weren't you?" John asked. He seemed embarrassed. That was odd.

"Of course." The detective replied. John nodded contently and left the room. Sherlock frowned once he was gone.

What did he mean by 'careful'?

* * *

><p><strong>Note to readers: The case is based on "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual". I won't go into too much detail on the case as it's not too important in the plot of this fic, but as an avid Sherlock Holmes fan, I would recommend you read it! It's one of my personal favourites!<strong>


	4. The Musgrave Ritual

**Note to readers: As pointed out to me by the lovely olivetrees, you should never pour chemicals down a sink in a lab! That just goes to show how much attention I paid in Chemistry!**

* * *

><p>Three days later or perhaps more – he always lost track of the time – the door slammed downstairs and Sherlock's mind blankly immediately. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and he concentrated on those. Lestrade quickly appeared around the door, as the detective had known he would. Without un-crouching, Sherlock picked up the ritual and tossed it towards the inspector.<p>

"Directions." He said.

"What?"

"They're directions."

"Directions to what?"

"We'll have to find out."

Sherlock hopped up, grabbing his coat and leaving a rather confused Lestrade to follow him downstairs and out of the door.

_Meet us at Sussex House for case conclusion._

_SH_

He sent the text as he got into a cab and received a reply only a minute later.

_Sex has gone to your head. You're even more arrogant than normal. _

The detective couldn't help but laugh. John had the crudest sense of humour. He and Lestrade met the army doctor at the end of Sussex House drive and together the three of them walked up towards the house.

"See that stump there." Sherlock pointed out.

"You asked about it when we were here before." John said. "It was struck by lightning and they had to cut it down – Musgrave said ten years ago."

"Precisely. It was an elm tree." Sherlock pulled out the ritual, "_Where was the shadow? Under the elm_. That elm, to be exact. I also asked for its height before it had been cut down. Sixty-four feet. Now if we use some basic trigonometry and allow for a typical tree growth over approximately four hundred years and the angle at which the sun would be at '_over_ _the_ _oak_'…" The detective trailed off, tossing the paper into his roommate's hand as he led them from the gravel onto the grass.

"_Where was the sun? Over the oak._" John quoted.

Sherlock lined himself up with the stump of the elm and the oak behind it. He turned immediately and paced in the direction of Sussex House. John and Lestrade hurried after him as they realised what he was doing. The detective halted only inches away from the wall of the house and his shoe displaced a small stone ornament. He bent to the ground and lifted it.

"Excellent!" He cried, pointing to two rings of dust near where it had sat, "See that? Someone has recently knocked this same statue in the same way that I did. Why else would a statue this close to the wall be moved?"

"Great, Sherlock," Lestrade said, almost mockingly, "But now what?"

"I told you, didn't I – we follow the directions. _North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one_. John do you have a compass?"

"Um, yeah. I have one on my phone." The army doctor replied, tossing his mobile to Sherlock.

They followed the instructions set forwards by the Musgrave ritual. Sherlock was becoming more and more excited with every step they took and his face dropped when the instructions ended and they were left in the doorway of one of the store rooms.

"That can't be right." He muttered as John and Lestrade entered the room to look about, "There must be some kind of error."

"Sherlock." John said.

"No, no. These stones are cemented down."

"Sherlock. Here."

"Shut up, John. I'm thinking. Maybe the compass was wrong-"

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake! There's a loose one over here."

The detective bounded over and threw himself at once onto the floor. He tried desperately to pull it up but it was far too heavy.

"Well, don't just stand there. Help me lift this!" Together, the three of them heaved the huge stone up. Lestrade grabbed a nearby wedge and thrust it under. Immediately they were hit by the stench of death. Sherlock pointed to a body collapsed on top of a wooden chest, "Richard Brunton, Sir Reginald Musgrave's butler."

* * *

><p>"Where do you think the girl is? Rachel Howells, the maid." Lestrade asked, an hour and a half later as they watched the man's body being lifted into an ambulance.<p>

"Gone. Long gone." Sherlock answered.

"Was she an accomplice?"

"Of course she was. She was the one who helped Brunton lift the stone. The wedge, the one that you used, must have fallen – or perhaps she knocked it purposefully – and, being unable to lift it again herself, she fled. She left him to suffocate."

"What was in the box? You looked, didn't you?" John asked, "It must have been something valuable or he wouldn't have gone to so much trouble."

"The crown jewels." Sherlock replied with a small smile. John's jaw dropped.

"You're kidding?"

"King Charles I's crown jewels, actually."

"How did he know?"

"Oh, I assume he was an enthusiast. He suspected the Musgrave Ritual meant more than just a petty family tradition and he struck gold."

"And the girl?"

"We'll never know."

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat pensive in his chair, his fingers pressed together and rested beneath his chin. He turned his thoughts to his encounter with Molly. His plan had been to kiss her and give her his promise of payment for her toils. Clearly, that had gone to pot.<p>

Why?

She had reciprocated the kiss eagerly and with a lot more passion than he had expected from the mousey pathologist he was used to, and from then on his mind had been a little preoccupied with his situation. He could have stopped it, had he wanted to, but he hadn't. Sherlock's frown creased further.

Why?

An increased level of vasopressin along with the mandatory testosterone was the most likely explanation for that anomaly. He was led to believe that it was entirely normal. He shook his head. That was a poor explanation, but it was the only theory he had.

A sudden thought hit him. Did he even consider it an experiment anymore, was that the problem? Sentiment? Attachment? Actual _love_?

Sherlock Holmes was clueless.

* * *

><p>John was watching him again. Why was he <em>always<em> watching? Sherlock sighed and spoke without turning from his laptop.

"Something's bothering you." John pretended to look surprised.

"What?"

"Spit it out." Sherlock snapped.

"You haven't called Molly yet, have you?"

"I'm busy." John snorted.

"Sherlock, you're on the internet. Don't you think that you could spend your time a little better?"

"And how do you suggest I do that?" Sherlock answered dispassionately.

"Call her. Ask her out. Anything." The army doctor suggested.

The detective only hummed his agreement. John shook his head in annoyance.

"I give up. Suit yourself." He muttered, stalking off to his room. Sherlock didn't feel guilty. He knew what he was doing now. Or at least he thought he did. He scrolled down the internet website he had up. Tickets – two. Evening matinee.

He knew what he was doing. He hoped.

* * *

><p><strong>Note to readers: <strong>Unfortunately, this will be it for a few days as I have literally no time to sleep this weekend and well as two essays to write. My friend Ellie and I are going up to London tomorrow to visit MOTHERFUCKING NORTH GOWER STREET, where they film "Sherlock"! <strong>**I am vibrating with excitement, quite literally!** **Expect cheesey tourist photos.****


	5. Swan Lake

**Note to readers: OK, I lied. Instead of doing my coursework, I did this chapter. I regret nothing. London was amazing, North Gower Street was amazing, and Baker Street was amazing. But after a big concert today, don't expect much else from me! To the reviewer ****Belge, who said this was moving too slow, I thank you for your honesty and things are about to whizz along (but not too fast or all the fun will be taken out of it). The last chapter** **was admittedly a bit of a filler. Hope you all enjoy this chapter! And don't forget to be brutally honest with me if I get something wrong!**

* * *

><p>The next Saturday, after a tiring case concerning a runaway three-legged donkey and a tin of baked beans, Sherlock was up before his roommate, and he arrived at St Bart's a little after half past eight. Molly did the early shift on Saturdays. He hurried down the steps to the mortuary and there she was, sifting through paperwork at the side of a body bag. He spoke without announcing himself.<p>

"It's been two weeks." Molly jumped out of her skin, whipping around and flushing a deep red before she gained control of herself again.

"Pardon?" She replied.

"It's been two weeks - since we last… saw each other."

"Well, you had a case." She shrugged.

"Are you not angry? You're meant to be angry." He said. His in-depth research had proven conclusively that sleeping with a woman and saying nothing to her for a fortnight was considered absolutely disgraceful. Had he known that last week he may have made more of an effort to speak with her. Perhaps.

Molly shook her head.

"I'm not angry. I know how much your work means to you." She said, going back to her papers and adding with forced nonchalance, "I knew you would get around to calling me in your own time."

"No you didn't."

"I hoped." She corrected. He paused.

"I still haven't thanked you." Sherlock said. Molly sighed lightly and looked up with a small smile on her lips.

"You don't _need_ to-"

"No. I want to take you out." She looked at him in bewilderment.

"But-"

"I'll pick you up at half six." He said sharply – she wouldn't accept if he didn't. He began walking back out again, "Wear something smart, a dress, but nothing too promiscuous." He heard her voice floating towards him as he pushed through the door.

"OK."

XXX

Molly straightened her cream dress, turning this way and that, attempting to see every angle in her bedroom mirror. OK, so her chest didn't look _too_ flat. Molly turned sideways on and sighed. So, perhaps she looked about fifteen in the bust, but Sherlock hadn't found that too much of a setback, in fact, that was the part of her he had seemed to find most fascinating. She wondered if he'd ever seen a woman naked right in front of him. The way he had acted suggested not.

She was still rather smug about that Friday, though she hated to admit it. Why even bother lying? She _loved_ to admit it. After all those years mooning over him like a pathetic schoolgirl she had finally got somewhere – or everywhere. Molly caught herself smiling like a lunatic and pressed her lips firmly together.

She had taken his advice and settled for a simple dress and pumps. The last thing she wanted was to trip and fall. She wondered where they were going. _Wear something smart_. So dinner seemed unlikely and so did the cinema. Molly frowned. It would just have to be a surprise then.

There was a sharp rapping on the door. Toby yowled in annoyance and shot under Molly's bed. She grabbed her coat from the back of the door and hurried into the living room. She opened the front door and stepped back to let Sherlock in. He looked her up and down and made no comment. Was that approval? He would've said had it not been.

"Ready to go?" She asked.

He didn't say anything, but raised his hand to her cheek, stroking it gently with his thumb. Molly had to force herself to breathe. It was so difficult when he was touching her. He leant in and kissed her hesitantly on the lips. It was like he was testing for something; like he was just making sure that she was real and willing and that he really felt something for her. He pulled away a few inches, a concerned look in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" He whispered. His voice made her shudder. Oh, wow.

"I'm fine." She was surprised that she was even able to speak.

"Your skin. It's a little greyish. Are you ill?"

"No, I'm fine. Really." She insisted, "I've just been feeling a little sick recently. I'm sure it's nothing."

He frowned at her. He looked so protective and masculine and she really needed to stop staring.

"Ready to go?" She asked again. He nodded and his eyes brightened at something he had evidently been thinking, but he didn't go so far as to smile. Molly locked her door behind her and they caught a cab. They sat in silence for the ten minute drive and Sherlock seemed a little bit more fidgety than usual, almost… worried. He bounded out onto the street almost before the car had stopped and threw a few notes to the cabbie. He held the door open for her with a smug look on his face as she gaped in awe at the building in front of her.

"The Royal – the Royal Opera House." She stammered breathless as the cab drove away behind her, "But Sherlock – the tickets. They were sold out. These – these must have cost a fortune!"

"I didn't bring you here to worry about the price." He said firmly. She looked to the floor and blushed. When she looked back up he was smiling warmly. She instantly felt more confident. What was wrong with her? She'd already slept with the man, so it wasn't like they hardly knew each other.

"What are we seeing, then?"

"Swan Lake."

Molly's heart stopped completely. She _loved_ Swan Lake, but 'loved' wasn't big enough. She had no words to describe how much it meant to her, but-

"How did you know?" Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

"The second time I met you, when I was examining the body of a retired ballet dancer, you mentioned how you had seen her perform on your eighteenth birthday, an unusual age to watch such a performance unless you were an enthusiast. The seventh time I met you, you were humming the 'Swan Theme', the sheet music for which was lying open on top of your piano the night you made me tea. I also noticed the video left on the TV table. That fact that it wasn't a DVD implied that it had been a favourite of yours for some time – its casing was clear from dust and a new layer of cellotape covered the crack on the front, showing that you had watched it recently and it still meant a lot to you." He took the tickets out of his inside coat pocket, "Swan Lake."

"You're amazing. I – I – thank you." She stuttered. His forehead creased into a childish frown and he pouted a little.

"This is meant to be _my _thank you – to you." He said. He paused a little, "This is our first date."

"Oh, yes. I suppose it is."

"How am I doing?" He asked quietly and hopefully. Oh. That was why he had seemed worried. She smiled widely.

"You're the best date I've ever had."

He looked to her and smiled a smile that lit his whole face, and put a beautiful twinkle in his eyes. He was too good to be true.

XXX

Sherlock watched Molly bounce with excitement and smiled to himself. He had impressed even himself tonight. Romance, like everything else, had a simple formula and he was fortunate enough to have the intelligence to work it out. The detective allowed himself to be pulled through the crowd by Molly, who seemed to know the set out like the back of her own hand. His eyes slipped down her back. He liked her dress. Simple, floating and with a decent neck line. He looked to their interlinked hands. Strange. The contact didn't repulse him. He would have to record that in his notebook, along with the fact that he was now staring at her-

"Lower slip?" Molly asked, stopping by the door. Sherlock blinked himself back into reality.

"Wh – ah – yes." He stammered. She gave him a small questioning look before he distracted her by passing her the tickets. She let go of his hand to push through the door and his heart fell a little. He followed her after a small dazed delay.

He found her stopped in front of the seats, looking back and forth between the tickets and the row before her.

"Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no. It's just – this is where we sat when – when my dad took me." She smiled, walking along the row a few seats, "A12. This is where I sat. He sat beside me. A11. How could you have known that?" Sherlock hesitated. Was it a good or bad thing to admit that it was a mere coincidence?

"I didn't." He said honestly. She shrugged and sat down in her seat and he took his cue from her. She didn't seem to mind. Instead, she drummed her feet on the floor like an overexcited child and bounced in her seat. He looked at his watch.

Almost as soon as he did, the lights went down. Molly's feet stopped drumming and she leant forwards against the balcony edge. He followed suit, gazing down at the orchestra pit. They started playing and Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. It was perhaps his only weakness – music. When the curtain began to lift he reopened his eyes and glanced to Molly. She had clearly been watching him and she smiled. He returned the gesture and they both turned to the stage as the first dancers entered.

* * *

><p><strong>Note to readers: This was all based on my own experience of the ROH, where I also saw the Swan Lake ballet<strong> **(I swear, I'm not advertising, but it really is so beautiful). It just struck me as something that Molly would enjoy. I dunno. Yeah. I'm tired. Sorry.**


	6. I Bought Milk

**Note to readers: Sorry for taking so long to update. I have been a busy bumbly bee and that hasn't left much room for writing. But enough with the excuses. Just enjoy this little installment and know that I love you all.**

* * *

><p>The curtain fell and audience clapped. Sherlock and Molly both stood with everyone else as they applauded the performers for the final time. He turned to her, expecting to see her crying like the snivelling woman in A10, but she wasn't. She stood with her eyes glazed and her skin a greyish-green.<p>

"Molly?" He asked. She looked to him slowly, "Are you alright?" She forced a queasy smile and nodded. She turned to her seat and picked up her coat. Her hands were shaking and her arms seemed stiff so he helped her put it on before putting on his. By that time, the majority of the lower slip had filed out past them and they had a clear path to the doors.

Sherlock watched Molly intently as they walked out into the corridor. She looked awful, truly awful. They were walking slower than he was used to and as a result he was a pace ahead of her. It took him a few seconds to notice that she had stopped. He turned back to where she was stood with one hand over her mouth and the other on her hip.

"Molly?" She shook her head and turned on her heels, stumbling through the bathroom door behind her. He ignored the figure on the sign and dashed in after her, "Molly?"

He found her hunched over the toilet in the first cubicle. He pushed past two women who had been watching the scene in a stunned silence, taking no notice of their clear disapproval of his presence.

"Molly." Tears streamed down her face and she sobbed in embarrassment. For a moment he just watched her. What was the social protocol for this? If he was vomiting in a theatre bathroom he would have wanted everyone to leave him alone. But this wasn't him. She gasped for breath and Sherlock glanced to the two women who were now watching his discomfort and muttering to each other. He moved forwards a little. What was the useful thing to do?

Slowly, he knelt down beside her and edged forwards. She felt him beside her and tried to shake her head.

"Sherlock, please-" She was cut off suddenly and with an instinctive reaction he never knew he had, the detective reached forwards and pulled her hair back. His mind flicked through the biology that he had knowledge of and he began rubbing her back. He muttered all the words of comfort he could think of, which ended up simply being "shh" and "it's alright".

Soon she collapsed against him, shaking a little and he handed her a tissue.

"I'm so sorry." She sobbed lightly, "I've ruined everything."

"You've ruined nothing." He said softly, "Come on."

* * *

><p>They walked back out to the street slowly and Molly seemed to be gaining strength with every step she took. Sherlock's mind drifted away from her illness – the poor girl had whatever bug was floating around at the moment – and instead he focused in on reviewing the date so far.<p>

It had gone better than he had expected. The ballet, at the risk of costing him his masculinity, had been spectacular. He had enjoyed the music more than the dancing, but both of them had exceeded his expectations and lived up to the Royal Opera House's prestige. They'd both bought vanilla ice-cream during the interval – he had paid – and shortly after that Molly had become increasingly quiet. Perhaps she had an intolerance of lactose? Perhaps it just didn't agree with her? He shrugged it off. That was of little importance now.

"You're extraordinary, do you know that?" Molly said suddenly. He looked to her sharply and so she explained, "None of the men I've ever gone out with would have done that."

"I didn't do anything." He replied honestly. She stopped and he copied as she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Sherlock, you found tickets that were like gold dust, you sat through two hours of ballet without so much as fidgeting, and then you held my hair back whilst I vomited. I wouldn't call that nothing." The detective paused.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Much better." She replied with a smile.

* * *

><p>It was nearer eleven than ten when Sherlock finally returned home after dropping Molly off at her flat and checking that she was alright. He had expected to be able to just slink in unnoticed, but apparently John had waited up for him.<p>

"Good date?" He asked. The detective fought the urge to make a rash comment.

"At least I had one." He snapped. Oh well. He'd resisted for a good few seconds. That had to count for something.

John reacted with his normal passive amusement. Sherlock turned on his heels and marched into his bedroom, tossing off his coat and jacket. He kicked off his shoes and opened his wardrobe, picking up the notebook lying beneath a pile of unwanted Christmas jumpers. Propping himself up on the bed, Sherlock pulled out his pen and began writing.

_Saturday 28th April_

_Date with Molly successful. Unexpected vomiting handled well and efficiently. Suggested rest, but received filthy look. Perplexed as to why._

_As expected, romance remains disappointingly formulaic so far. No foreseeable changes to this, however, illness may prove a hindrance. _

_Experienced odd attraction and craving for human contact. Currently concerned for own sanity. Can feel sentiment seeping in. Perhaps not love, as feared, but attachment. Have yet to decide whether latest development to restored investigation is good or bad. _

_Also, recent online checks reveal no bug is going around the immediate area. Bugs common in mortuaries though, so satisfactory explanation for Molly's sudden illness established. According to John, social convention is to send flowers to ailing friends. Must ask whether this applies to minor stomach bugs._

Sherlock tossed his pen and notebook away and sat with his fingers pressed tightly together and set beneath his chin. Never had he been so confused by his own mind. It was playing tricks on him, he was sure of it.

* * *

><p>Molly turned around and there he was. She squeaked in surprise but managed to gain control of herself quickly.<p>

"Stop doing that." She complained. He frowned. Was that concern? She wasn't really in the mood to care.

"Why aren't you in bed?"

"Because I'm fine. I don't need to be in bed." Sherlock contemplated her reasoning for a while and then decided to let it slip.

"Lestrade said that you have a body for me." He said.

"Yes, but we need permission from the parents before you can see it."

"I've never needed permission before." He stated. Molly sighed and turned back to her paperwork, sifting through the bits that weren't relevant.

"You've never had a case like this before." She replied. He didn't seem to want to go for it.

"But why?"

"Don't argue with me." Molly said sternly. God, he was so irritating.

"You haven't answered my question."

Molly snapped.

"Because she's a twelve year old rape victim, that's why, Sherlock." She cried, spinning around to face him and tossing the paperwork back onto the desk. He blinked in shock, a little taken aback by either her outburst or her statement. She looked down, "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap."

"That's fine." He said plainly, "Illness can cause hormonal imbalance." Molly had to clenched her jaw to stop herself shouting again. She shook it off.

"I'll text you when – _if_ they consent, so you can go."

He didn't move. He just watched her and she tolerated it.

"Have I done something wrong?" Molly gathered her paperwork in her arms. She had other things to worry about. She spoke over her shoulder as she left the room.

"I don't have time for this."

* * *

><p>She sat on the edge of the bath and waited.<p>

Her legs shook and she tried to distract herself. She looked to the shelf. One of the screws was coming loose and she needed to buy some more soap. Her eyes fell to the edge of the sink as she studied the tiles on the wall. They were rarely cleaned properly. She never had time to do anything more than wipe them down every now and again. She looked at what was balanced on the edge of the sink.

Her stomach flipped and she looked at the floor as she tried to control her nausea.

Her clock bleeped and she threw herself across the bathroom, grabbing the small pen-like device. Her head whirled and she closed her eyes. Look at it. Look at it, you coward. What are you so scared of? She could answer that question easily. She opened her eyes and blinked back terrified tears. She looked down.

Oh, shit.

* * *

><p>John sat in his office. His shift had finished a few minutes ago, but he still had the records of his last patient to log – the stupid man had turned up twenty minutes late. Bloody NHS. A familiar drilling noise provided him with a much needed distraction from the details of this man's particularly nasty case of food poisoning. He picked up his phone and opened the message.<p>

_Are you at home?_

_Molly x_

John frowned and replied.

_No, I'm still at work. My shift just finished. Why?_

He tapped his fingers as he waited for her answer. Strange. This had never happened before.

_Can you meet me at St Bart's ASAP? I need to talk to you._

_Molly x_

Her reply was slow and it worried him even more than the mysteriousness of her message. He threw on his coat and shoved the papers in their file as he sent her his answer.

_Sure. Be there in 10._

* * *

><p>The army doctor stood outside the hospital six minutes after he'd left the surgery – a personal record. It was a little chilly for early May and he tapped his toes rhythmically on the pavement. He jumped as he received a text.<p>

_Why aren't you at home? I bought milk. _

_SH_

John sighed. He thought it was going to be Molly. Before he could reply his phone vibrated again.

_I take that back. I appear to have bought bleach. Tesco needs a better labelling system._

_SH_

John tapped out his reply with a shake of the head.

_For God's sake, don't drink it, you twat._

He looked up. He couldn't see Molly. Obviously Sherlock didn't know about what was bothering her or he would have been more suspicious.

_That insult was unnecessary, however, Lestrade seems to share your view. I put it in his tea, accidentally of course._

_SH_

John rolled his eyes.

_Why's Lestrade there? What have you done now?_

John looked around. He could see a small figure heading his way. He squinted in the fading dusky light. It looked like Molly, but he couldn't be sure. His phone buzzed.

_I haven't done anything, thank you very much. Something about a serial car thief. Bored already._

_SH_

John shook his head and shoved his phone back into his pocket. Now that she was closer he could tell that it was definitely Molly. She was clearly distressed and she had to wipe her eyes every couple of seconds to be able to see past the tears. He hated seeing her upset, even at a distance. If Sherlock had anything to do with this, John would thump him one.

"Molly?" He called across the road. She didn't seem to hear him. She turned her head to glance behind her as she stepped into the road.

She didn't look properly.


	7. Crash and Compassion

**Note to readers: You have no idea how many times I have rewritten this chapter. I just can't seem to get it right, but I think this is the closest I will get. Thank you so much reviewers; it really means a lot to me. You need to tell me where I need to improve though! I promise I won't bite.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>A sickening thud filled his ears and the car's breaks slammed and screeched in a symphony of appalling noise. John didn't even notice as it swerved and drove off, he was too focused on the motionless body of the woman on the cold, hard road. Without thinking to look, he ran to her. An off-duty nurse hurried back into the hospital with a cry for assistance.<p>

"Molly!" John shouted. He threw himself next to her. Blood was already pooling around her head and her arm was grossly bent out of shape. His head spun and for a moment he thought he would keel over before his medical instincts kicked in.

He knew not to move her. He checked her pulse and breathing, both of which were slightly irregular, but otherwise alright. Her chest shuddered with every rise and fall. He didn't have time for anything else before paramedics were surrounding him and she was being lifted from the floor. John pulled out his phone as he followed the trolley inside. The voice at the end of the line spoke in intuitive concern.

"_John?_"

"Get to St Bart's, now." John replied, "It's Molly."

* * *

><p>Sherlock's heart was racing as he burst into the hospital, but he didn't show it – he <em>couldn't<em> show it. Lestrade followed him irritatingly closely and together they navigated the stark white corridors. The stench of disinfectant couldn't mask the smell of vomit, blood and tears, but the detective had little time to dwell on it before they reached A&E. John leapt up from his chair and wasted no time in explaining.

"What happened? Where is she?"

"It was a hit and run. She's in resus now." John said, "She was crossing the road, but he came around the corner so fast. He didn't even stop."

"Sounds like we found your serial car thief." Sherlock muttered to Lestrade. The inspector nodded briefly and the detective turned back to his roommate, "Will she be OK?"

"I don't know. They wouldn't let me in." He paused, "There was a lot of blood."

Sherlock shifted impatiently on his feet. Was this how it felt to be worried for someone's wellbeing? If it was, he didn't like it. Not at all.

"What was she doing out?" Sherlock complained angrily, then turning on his friend, "What were _you_ doing out?" John opened his mouth to reply when a doctor approached them, an impartial frown on his face.

"Are you here for Molly Hooper?" He asked them.

"Yes, how is she?" Sherlock replied quickly. He needed to work on being less obvious. His nerves and acting abilities were shattered.

"We've managed to get her stable and as far as we can tell there's no long-term damage, but she's lost a lot of blood. We're going to set her arm in a cast as soon as we're satisfied that she's not in any immediate danger. She was lucky; it was a clean break."

"Well, can we see her?" John asked, his body relaxing from its tense position.

"You should be able to see her soon, but we need to run some tests first, just to make sure that the baby's OK."

The world seemed to stop and the three men froze in shock.

"I'm sorry, the – the what?" John stammered, glancing a silently swaying Sherlock. The doctor looked a little surprised.

"Oh, I assumed one of you was the partner." The doctor answered tentatively. No one replied. The sounds of the hospital became suddenly muffled and the lines defining the figures and objects before Sherlock became less distinct. He couldn't feel his arms, or his legs, or anything.

"_Sherlock_?" The question came from the end of a long tunnel. Stars spotted his vision. It was his. It had to be. The baby was his. The A&E started moving and Sherlock panicked. He felt several pairs of hands grip his arms and back and the world suddenly came back into focus. He must have collapsed, but only briefly as he hadn't hit the floor. His head lolled a bit as he regained control of his limbs.

The arms of Lestrade and John held him hovering in mid-air and with an awkward cough the detective straightened himself up, shaking away their assistance.

"Are you alright?" John asked carefully.

"Fine." Sherlock answered, his voice slipping. He cleared his throat and repeated himself, "I'm fine. When can I see her?" His question had been directed at the doctor watching him in both amusement and concern.

"Now, if you're her partner." He said, "But just you." Sherlock nodded and pulled his arm from John's hand.

"I'm fine." He repeated firmly as he followed the doctor further into the hospital.

Lestrade turned to John with an open mouth. The army doctor shook his head with the same stunned expression.

"I don't know."

* * *

><p>Resus wasn't as busy as all those medical dramas would suggest. The soft steady bleeping of the heart rate monitor created a monotonous background noise and only one doctor and one nurse attended to the battered lab technician. Wires were everywhere and he could hardly get a single good look at her. They'd cleaned up the cut on her head and her arm was being dealt with too.<p>

He stopped at the door, but could go no further. It had all gone wrong. His plan – his _experiment_ – had been utterly derailed and destroyed. He felt angry, not with himself, but with the world for taking away a puzzle that had actually kept him occupied for longer than a few weeks. And her? He didn't know how he felt about her. He was annoyed, of course; he wasn't sadistic, he didn't _like_ seeing people get hurt. Unless they deserved it, which she didn't. He would make it his priority to find this car thief and have him banged to rights. He would do that for any of his friends.

Suddenly, the nurse blocking his view moved and for the first time, through the glass of the door, he saw her. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. How could be have been so selfish? She was so tiny, so frail. She had just been mown down by a heartless hit and run driver and he was angry about his _experiment_? He really could be loathsome. The odd thing was that it surprised him. He didn't know why – he was told it often enough.

The doctor tending to her spotted Sherlock at the door and, tossing down the blood-soaked towel in her hand, she approached him.

"Is she OK?"

"Are you the partner?" The doctor asked him in reply. He studied her briefly. Was he Molly's partner? Did her… pregnancy automatically revise their relationship? He didn't have a clue. He swallowed his pride.

"Yes." He said weakly, "Can I see her?"

"Of course." The doctor nodded, explaining as they entered the resus room, "She's unconscious at the moment, but we've cleaned her up as best as we can. There's no obvious head trauma and I'm confident that she hasn't suffered any serious damage. In time she should make a full recovery."

Sherlock nodded. He was being spoken to like a child, but he ignored that for once, for _her_ sake. He stared at her. He was right. It wasn't love, perhaps it wasn't even attachment. It was something deeper than that – it was loyalty, devotion. Was that more important? Looking at her he realised how her pain caused him pain. Compassion? He had so much to take in. All of these words were ones that he would never have associated with himself in a million years. He was heartless, uncaring, and as sad as it was, he took pride in that. Separation was what protected him. Separation was what kept him alive.

"What – what about the…" He couldn't get the words out. All the different emotions were causing him to overload. It was all too new and his inability to deal with it was making him frustrated. Tears welled up in his eyes and the doctor seemed to mistake it for… well, God knows what she thought it was, but she gave him a small smile.

"The baby?" She said for him. He nodded sharply, "We were just about to run Molly upstairs for an ultrasound, just to check that everything is alright."

"No… bleeding?"

"None." The doctor answered, "She's strong." Sherlock faked a quick smile.

She was a liability.

* * *

><p><strong>Note to readers: Rubbish, I know, but hopefully things will pick up now!<strong>


	8. That Grey Space

**Note to readers: I know, I know I've been gone for ****far too long, but I've had a lot of shit to deal with and AS levels and all kinds. I've also had huge mental block and still do, so any ideas would be greatly appreciated. But know that I am so so so so so so sorry and I'm cowering under my desk now in fear of your wrath. Please let me live.**

* * *

><p>The world was nothing but a blur of colours and lights. Molly felt like she was floating, weightless and empty. How much morphine had they given her? The aches began setting in. Too much, it seemed. Her own breathing sounded too close, like it was inside her head. She tried to sit up but found that she couldn't. Where was she? Not in resus, by the smell of things. The hum of the hospital sounded distant and there didn't seem to be anyone else around – she was in a private ward, or an empty one.<p>

Molly experimented with her fingers. They moved slowly, but at least she had control of them. Her toes moved too and she tensed and relaxed her muscles, moving methodically upwards until she reached her right arm. Blimey, that was painful. The painkillers were wearing off, that's for sure. Why was she here? Molly followed back everything she could remember. She remembered walking towards St Bart's. She remembered not being able to see through the tears as she stepped out into the road. She remembered someone calling her name and the screech of breaks, and then nothing.

Until now.

A shadow moved in the corner of her eye and she looked at the grey space that she assumed was the door. Her vision was a little blurry but she could make out a distinct figure. She could recognise him anywhere.

"Sherlock?" She whispered. She could hardly hear her own voice, so she didn't expect him to respond. His expression was unclear. Was he worried? Was he angry? Did he even care? She couldn't tell. Molly heard his feet shuffle against the floor and he edged towards her.

"The doctor said you'll be fine." He said. His voice echoed harshly and she winced. Did he mean to sound that cold? She had nothing to say in reply and so she concentrated on focusing her vision. He stepped closer again. If she didn't know him better she would have said that he was scared of her. It was a complete role reversal – she was the wolf and he was the startled deer. It felt absurd.

"I'm not going to bite you." Molly's attempt at a joke was met with a displeased "humph" and the detective pulled a chair to her side. He sat down in his usual manner – peaceful but alert.

They remained silent for what seemed like an eternity before Sherlock spoke.

"How do you feel?"

"Weird. All… airy." Molly replied.

"Lightheaded-ness is a common side effect of morphine."

"I know that." She snapped. Well, it was slightly slower than a snap, but it was meant to sound harsh.

"Are you in any pain?" He asked, more gently than before. She could see his face now and he did _seem_ concerned. But he also seemed patronising. She didn't like it, but she was too weak to fight.

"Not if I stay still. I just feel numb." There was a surprisingly tense pause.

"Inside or out?"

Molly froze and looked at Sherlock in amazement. That was the most insightful thing he'd ever said.

"Well – I – both, I guess." She replied quietly. He forced a small smile and nodded.

"I'm going to go and let John know what's happening." Sherlock said, standing up, "I won't be long."

"You don't have to stay-"

"No." He interrupted, "I want to." They shared a smile and he headed towards the door. He paused in the frame and looked down at his shoes, scuffing them gently. There was something he wasn't saying, she could tell, but she didn't want to push her luck.

He turned back and opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped himself and walked away. Molly was left alone in a stunned silence. She had a really bad feeling about this.

XXX

Sherlock marched down the corridor, away from Molly's room. He hadn't said anything about… about _it_. He didn't feel that he could. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him. Until then, he would wait. The hospital corridors flowed neatly into one another as he walked towards the reception and within moments he was there.

"Lestrade was called back to the station." John explained, standing up to greet his roommate. Sherlock barely responded. He didn't particularly care. There was an awkward pause, "How is she?"

"Fine. You can go home now." The detective replied. He wasn't in the mood for talking. He turned away to head back the way he came, but John stopped him.

"How's the baby?"

He said nothing, but walked away as quickly as he could.

* * *

><p><strong>Note to readers: Yes, it's crap I know. And very short, but it's the best I can without ruining the story. Be prepared for a very long wait. And sorry again. I love you all for the support you've given me though. <strong>


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